


A Place Called Home

by the_most_beautiful_broom



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Farmer Bellamy Blake, the lost husband au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26505826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom
Summary: Clarke Griffin has everything she's ever wanted--a beautiful house, two wonderful children, a loving husband--and in a moment of failed brakes and torn metal, it's taken away. Two years later, she has nowhere to turn but to her Aunt Dee's farm. Among the goats and the South Texas countryside, with her children and an antisocial farm manager, Clarke will heal, grow, love again, and find a place called home. // or The Lost Husband, but make it Bellarke
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 36
Kudos: 138
Collections: The t100 Writers for BLM Initiative





	A Place Called Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bellarke_Stitch_Delena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bellarke_Stitch_Delena/gifts).



Sunshine streams through the house, dappling through the maples in the front yard, but Clarke wipes at the spilled orange juice on the table, and still feels cold. 

“Why does Ethan get a day off?” Madi pouts, sloshing milk around the bowl as she fishes through her cereal for marshmallows. 

“It’s not a day off,” Clarke says, dropping the sopping paper towel in the trashcan. It barely lands on the top of the pile; hadn’t she asked Wells to take the trash out last night? “Your brother is sick, Mads, it’s not like we’re going to Seaworld.”

Madi makes a face, realizing there’s no more marshmallows in her bowl. “Yeah, but—”

“I don’t feel good,” Ethan mumbles.

It’s the ninetieth time he’s said it this morning. 

Clarke’s sure he means it, but a part of her is starting to grate. 

“I know, sweetie,” she says, soothing as possible. “We’re going to get you to the doctor’s, as soon as your father—”

“My favorite job title,” booms a voice behind her. 

Clarke smiles as Wells walks into the kitchen, tie still undone, suit jacket halfway on. He leans across the table to tug on Madi’s braid, then crosses behind Clarke, kissing her cheek quickly. 

“Hon, can you take Madi to school today?” she asks.

Wells’ hands pause momentarily as he pours coffee from the tumbler into his travel mug. “Course,” he says, as she knew he would. 

“I need to take Ethan to the doctor, he—”

“I don’t feel good,” Ethan interjects. 

“Sorry to hear that, buddy,” Wells says, capping the mug and turning back to the table, a concerned look at their kids. 

Clarke feels a glimmer of gratitude that they’ve always been partners in this.

The firm is pretty demanding, but Wells makes family a priority; Clarke does the same. Maybe she hasn’t been out to her studio in the shed in a couple months...years…

It’s okay, she reminds herself. 

A home is what’s important. 

“Madi, I’m leaving in five minutes, is that good?” Wells asks.

“Oh no,” Madi deadpans, hopping off the stool and walking her bowl over to the sink. “I don’t have time to finish the rest of my cereal.”

“And you’re going to the bank today?” Clarke asks, under her breath. 

Wells nods, almost imperceptible. 

“I don’t feel good,” Ethan says. 

“I’m sorry, man,” Wells says, and then looks back at Clarke. “Yes, I’m gonna drop Madi off, go work on the new deal, then to the bank—”

“It’s just, tuition’s due...” Clarke begins, and Wells smiles at her, soft. 

“Clarke, we’re going to be fine.”

She nods, automatically, wondering how he always believes it. 

“School, work, bank,” he says. “Got it. You worry too much.”

Someone has to, Clarke thinks. 

She smiles. “You’re right.”

“Okay,” Wells says. He picks up his coffee, finally fixes his tie, and holds open the door for Madi. She ducks under his arm, a mournful look at her brother and then a quick wave for her mom. Clarke follows them, hands Wells Madi’s lunch, and accepts the quick goodbye kiss. 

“Everything’s going to be fine,” he whispers, waits until she nods, before stepping back. “Love you.”

“Love you,” Clarke echoes.

“Mom, I don’t feel good,” Ethan says, behind her.

She leans against the door of the house, watches her eldest and her husband get into the car, tossing a backpack and briefcase into the back, long limbs curling into the front seats.

Something’s going to happen. 

She presses a hand over her heart, pushing back at the anxiety.

It’s going to work out, she reasons. 

Wells will sort it out, tuition will go through. They’ll make the mortgage this month, and next, Ethan and Madi will continue at this school, Wells will get the next deal and they can stop living paycheck to paycheck, in this perfect suburban myth of a neighborhood.

Something’s going to happen. 

Clarke shakes her head, waves when the car backs out of the driveway. She schools her features before going back inside, erasing the worry, the stress, the anxiety.

Everything is going to be fine, Wells had said. 

Later, she’ll realize it was the last lie he told her.

— 

“Okay, don’t look now; is that Clarke Jaha?”

“What, where?”

“Halfway down the produce aisle—don’t make it obvious.”

“God, she looks rough.”

“Wouldn’t you? Imagine losing your husband in a car crash, having to pull your kids out of Arkadia, losing the house, moving back in with your mother…”

“Especially her mother. Poor thing. Can’t believe we were all debs together.”

“Shouldn’t she have...switched to purple?”

“It’s only been, what, two years? Come on.”

“I suppose. She does look rough.”

“Poor thing.”

“Mmm. Poor thing.”

— 

“Mom?”

Madi’s voice is small from the backseat of the minivan, and Clarke smiles reassuringly into the rearview mirror. 

“Yes, honey?”

Madi shakes her head. “Nothing. You just looked…”

She trails off, and Clarke forces her shoulders to relax. 

“Thank you, Mads,” she says gently, making eye contact so her daughter knows she means it. “I’m just tired.”

Madi nods, looking out the window. 

South Texas country rolls by, pretty land. Clarke can’t remember the last time she was this far out of Houston; probably not since she left for college.

And then came right back. 

She probably would’ve stayed, would’ve let her mother’s comments roll off her back, but she’d found Madi in their shared bathroom, looking at herself sideways in the mirror, holding her breath and admiring her silhouette when her stomach was slimmer, her face deflating when she let out the breath.

Clarke knows that exact expression.

She used to wear it whenever Abby was around, and she can’t bear to see it on her beautiful daughter’s face.

She’d called Aunt Dee on a whim.

It’s not like she and her aunt are close, far from it, but she remembers something like empathy in the older woman’s eyes at Wells’ funeral, and Clarke knows that anything, even a shot in the dark, will be better than another night for her children under Abby’s roof.

Which is why they’re here, speeding along I-10 as the sun sets, pretending this is normal and not an exodus. 

The highway thins to surface roads, then a single lane road, and then Clarke turns the minivan off onto a dirt road. The wheels rattle and she sees Ethan and Madi exchanging looks in the backseat.

They have their wands clutched in their hands, souvenirs from their family trip to Disneyworld last summer; they’ve taken to carrying them like wards.

Clarke kind of wishes she had one. 

There’s a particularly jarring jut in the road, and then they turn when they find a mailbox that says Charmaine Diyoza.

They drive under a canopy of trees, and Clarke’s breath catches when they break out into the main farmstead.

It’s a farm, it looks like a farm, but more than that. It’s tranquil. There’s a red barn, a paddock with goats and a couple barn cats slinking in front of it, and something silver behind it. There’s a coop, an actual coop, for chickens, and a farmhouse that’s far from grand, but simple and sturdy. 

The door opens, and a mountain of a woman emerges from it. 

“That’s Abby’s sister?” Ethan says, awed.

“Sure is,” Clarke says. 

“She looks like Madame Maxime,” Madi whispers.

Clarke smiles, thinking that if Aunt Dee has an ounce of magic in her veins, they’ll need it. 

“Alright,” she says, turning off the car, “everyone out.”

The kids tumble out of the car and Clarke stretches as she climbs out. 

“Clarke,” Aunt Dee says, tilting her chin up. Clarke steps around the car, hands on the kids’ shoulders. 

“Thank you so much for having us,” she says, and it feels inadequate. 

Aunt Dee makes a face like she knows it, but it genuinely doesn’t matter. “You’re always welcome here. Who are you two?”

“I’m Madi,” Madi says. “This is Ethan.”

Aunt Dee nods. “Strong names. Nice to meet you both; I’m your Aunt Dee.”

The kids beam at her, and Clarke squeezes their shoulders. 

“Know any good spells?” Aunt Dee asks, pointing to the wands. 

Ethan shakes his head very seriously. “We can’t practice magic in the muggle world.”

“Ah,” Diyoza’s eyes widen. “Well, I won’t tell the ministry if you don’t...why don’t you try turning that goat over there into a goose?”

Madi giggles and Ethan looks delighted at the prospect of a personal petting zoo. Aunt Dee crooks her head and they trot off to a goat near the edge of the paddock. 

Clarke smiles watching them go, sobering slightly at Madi’s limp. 

A physical reminder of the emotional scar she’ll always carry from the car crash that took her father. 

“Do goats bite?” she asks, pulling herself back to the present. 

Aunt Dee snorts. “They’re goats, Clarke.”

Clarke purses her lips. “Here’s hoping it’s not hard.”

Madi and Ethan are gently petting a goat and it doesn’t seem too hungry for finger sandwiches, so hopefully it’s fine. 

“Let me give you a hand with the bags,” Aunt Dee says, heading to the back of the van. With a last look at the kids, Clarke follows her, clicking a button on the keys to open the trunk. It’s a sad sight—three suitcases, a tote bag with files and paperwork, that’s it.

“The estate sale took care of a lot of our extra stuff,” Clarke says sheepishly. 

Aunt Dee pauses, then looks around the car at the kids. The goat is trying to take Madi’s wand and Ethan is bribing it with some grass instead, their laughter rising in the late afternoon light. 

“I don’t know,” Aunt Dee swings the tote onto her shoulder and grabs one of the smaller suitcases, Ethan’s. “Looks like you have everything that matters.”

Clarke looks between the kids and Aunt Dee, then grabs the other two suitcases. It’s an upper body workout, to carry them by the handles so they don’t pick up any mud, but she makes it to the porch. 

Diyoza directs her to the rooms upstairs, and ducks into a kitchen to check on the contents of a cartoonishly large pot on the stove. Clarke tries to establish a mental blueprint as she walks through the farmhouse—kitchen, wet room, bathroom, Aunt Dee’s bedroom, stairs, upstairs bedrooms, upstairs bathroom.

When she comes back down, Aunt Dee is setting the table; Clarke takes the plates from her on instinct. 

They set the table in silence, Aunt Dee pointing to the drawers before Clarke can even ask where things are located. Every now and then, Clarke will peak out the kitchen window to the yard, to see the

kids with all their fingers still attached. 

The sun’s setting, yellow and orange streaming through the window and Clarke tries her best to not think of the morning sun on a day, so far from this one…

“What’s this?” she asks abruptly, pointing to a bonsai in the corner of the kitchen. It’s not that Aunt Dee doesn’t have bonsai energy, it’s just—well, actually, that’s exactly it. The woman is a lesson in practicality, and the little plant seems as out of place as a vase of roses. 

The older woman looks up from the napkins she’s folding, smiling softly. “That was Marcus’. They brought him such calm, no matter the state of the farm, to cultivate life inside the house too.”

Clarke nods, looking around the room. On top of the bookcase is another bonsai, carefully maintained, distant. Clarke sits in one of the seats at the table. 

“Who’s Marcus?” she asks. 

Aunt Dee sits too, a softness around her eyes. “My husband.”

Clarke didn’t know Aunt Dee was ever married. 

“We never married,” Aunt Dee says, like she knows the question is coming, “but we were each others’. He passed ten years ago.”

Clarke gets it. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. 

Aunt Dee nods. “We should call the kids in, get them washed up. The chilli’s almost done.”

Dinner is uneventful; the kids have hundreds of questions about farm life, and Aunt Dee doesn’t seem to mind the company. 

Madi and Ethan take it in a stride that the farm is very much a working thing, not for luxury, and that dishes will be done by hand. Clarke’s just relieved they haven’t asked about TV yet.

To be fair, it’s a lot of change for a day, and she can see Ethan’s blinks lingering and Madi’s limp gets more pronounced as their bodies tire. Aunt Dee offers to put them to bed, which leaves Clarke with the dishes, which is fine.

Clarke always does better when her hands are busy.

She finishes washing, dries off the glassware so it doesn’t streak, and leaves the china in the drying rack. It’s not quite warm out, but the moon is bright; she wraps her sweater tightly around her

shoulders and ventures out onto the porch.

It’s so quiet. 

In the suburbs, there was always something faint. Never sirens or parties, like in the city, but a dog a couple houses down, someone’s TV set, a radio in the other room...out here, it’s still. 

She wonders if Wells would like it here.

He’s a man of action, always liked to be trying, achieving, attaining, the next project—

He was, Clarke corrects herself. 

Grief is a funny thing. 

Suffocating one moment, eternal the next, ever present, in different forms. Tonight, it’s just familiar, a hug of emotions that doesn’t threaten to overwhelm her, just sits around her. 

What a gift to have someone to miss so deeply.

The screen door opens, and Aunt Dee comes out, blankets and mugs in her arms. She motions, and Clarke turns around to see a couple wicker chairs. They sit, wrap their legs in the plaid blankets, and

their fingers around the warm mugs. 

Clarke lifts the mug, inhaling something herbal, still too hot to drink. “What is this?”

Aunt Dee shrugs. “Hell if I know. Lavender something, I think, chamomile, stuff like that. Always calms me down enough to close out a day; I get it in bulk from the farmer’s market.”

“Oh, is there a farmer’s market here?” Clarke asks, surprised. It seemed like pretty rural country when they drove in, but maybe she missed a town center.

“Nah, down in Houston. I go to sell the cheese.”

“The cheese?” Clarke asks. 

“From the goats. Maybe I’ll let you take a weekend for me, later in the summer.”

Clarke has barely thought ahead to February, much less summer. “You know,” she says carefully. “This won’t be forever. Just until I get us back on our feet.”

“Sure,” Aunt Dee says, taking a long pull of the still-scalding tea. “I know.” 

“It’s just,” Clarke feels compelled to keep explaining, “after Wells...everything just kind of stopped. And when I reoriented, there were so many things I couldn’t stay on top of, and it just made sense to let most of it go.”

“We’re not meant to hold things too tightly,” Aunt Dee says. 

Clarke blows on the tea, a billow of steam rising from it. “I really appreciate you inviting us to stay.”

Aunt Dee is silent for a moment. 

The wind rustles the leaves in the oaks, there’s an odd bleating from the barn. There’s crickets and frogs, and general wildness sounds, soothing, like a lullaby from an unfamiliar world.

Aunt Dee takes another swallow of her tea.

“You lost your person and your direction, Clarke. I know something about what that’s like. I’m happy this is the place for you to sort that out.”

Clarke takes a sip of the tea; it’s bitter but it’s warm and it pools in her stomach, and she tells her mind to quiet down with trying to find a metaphor there.

—

She wakes quickly, the next morning, sunlight directly on her face. Wincing, Clarke rolls over, not surprised that the night stand doesn’t have a clock, but still disappointed. Her watch says 6:30, but she can hear dishes downstairs.

And Ethan. 

Clarke sits up, rubbing her face, listening to her son laugh. He’s never woken easily before 7am, and now he’s downstairs?

She dresses quickly—what does one even wear for a day on a farm?—jeans and a sweater.

“Mom!” Madi sings, when she steps into the kitchen. 

“Hey,” Clarke says, trying not to be offended that everyone looks wide awake and she still feels like clouds of sleep are looming. 

“Aunt Dee made pancakes,” Ethan says, tapping his fork against his plate. “Try this jam!”

Clarke reaches for his fork and dips it in the pile of jam at the corner of his plate. 

“Aunt Dee, that’s delicious,” she says, going back for another taste and telling the voice in the back of her head that it’s more fruit than sugar; it’s fine to be eating it by the forkful. 

“Strawberries and blueberries from that field in the back,” Aunt Dee says, pride counteracting her casual tone.

“She says we can pick them in the summer!” Madi says, excitedly. 

Clarke is trying to figure out how to tell her daughter they won’t be here come summer when the door bangs open. She jumps, the kids look intrigued, and Aunt Dee steps to the side as a man lumbers a giant bundle of logs into the kitchen, dropping it by the wood-burning stove in the corner on the floor. 

“Bellamy Blake,” Aunt Dee says, gesturing with a knife between Clarke and the man, “Farm manager.”

“Where’s your office?” Madi smirks, taking in the man’s rugged appearance. 

He looks up and grins, pointing at Madi and then looking back to Aunt Dee. “Diyoza,” he says, in a voice deep enough to be straight out of a Western, “You gotta stop calling me a manager like I have an office out back.”

Aunt Dee shrugs, smiling, and turns back to her espresso machine.

Clarke leaves that be—the woman dries her clothes on a line in the yard, but a proper espresso machine, that she has—and looks back at Bellamy. 

He’s looking at her already.

Clarke tilts her head, wondering what he sees. 

What she sees is someone whose face matches his voice—hidden in a beard and a general layer of sweat and dirt, a thick jacket and flannel that were probably picked out of a mail order magazine, thick boots. An actual cowboy hat. 

His eyes are a surprise. 

They’re dark and they’re deep, like the espresso Aunt Dee is pulling. 

“So,” he says, same gravelly voice, “the long lost niece.”

He holds out a hand and she shakes it. 

“Clarke,” she says. It’s been a while since her debutante days, because he registers when she winces at whatever’s on his hand. 

He pulls his hand back and exchanges it for a handkerchief, and if she knew him a little better, she’d say he’s laughing at her. “It’s just grease,” he says.

“I’m Madi,” Madi says. 

“I’m Ethan,” Ethan says. 

“Hey,” Bellamy says, turning as Aunt Dee presses a mug into his hand. 

Madi’s eyes narrow. “Where do you live?”

“Madi,” Clarke hisses, but Bellamy doesn’t seem to mind as he drinks his coffee. 

Does no one have temperature sensitivity around here, Clarke thinks. 

“It’s fine,” he says easily. “I live in the airstream behind the barn.”

“You look like Remus Lupin,” Ethan says, decisively. “But, like, when he’s a werewolf.”

“How do you know he’s not a werewolf?” Aunt Dee asks, eyes wide.

The kids look at Bellamy, who looks mildly amused. 

Clarke hands him back the bandana.

“I’m just teasing,” Aunt Dee says. “Nah, Bellamy’s just here to teach your mom how to run a farm.”

“To what now?” Bellamy says, in the same breath that Clarke says, 

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

Aunt Dee takes a long sip of coffee. “What?”

So they did hear her correctly. 

“I know I need a job,” Clarke begins, “but—”

“You need a job, I need help, Blake needs to train someone for when he’s not around; I see no flaws here,” Diyoza says. 

“Be that as it may,” Clarke says carefully, “I’m not really the farming type.”

“Yeah, she’s really not,” Bellamy says, and Madi chokes on the last bite of her pancakes. 

Clarke turns, feeling her smile stretch thin. “Beg your pardon?”

Bellamy holds up his hands. “You’re the one who said—”

“You don’t know me,” Clarke interrupts. “You don’t—never mind. Aunt Dee, I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

Aunt Dee presses a mug of coffee into her hands. “Not a discussion, Clarke. Drink up, I’m sure Bellamy will be ready to go in 5 minutes.”

Clarke blinks. “It’s Sunday.”

“And the goats need milking, hay needs baling, and a bunch of other stuff that doesn’t listen to a calendar. Sugar?”

Clarke holds the mug out mutely, and Aunt Dee dumps a tablespoon of sugar into it. 

“Come on, kids,” Aunt Dee says, dropping a spoon in Clarke’s mug and miming for her to stir, before stepping around her. “Let’s go see Sinclair, down at the feed store.” 

The three of them leave the kitchen, bustling with excitement, before Clarke can say goodbye. 

“Bye, love you, have fun,” she says flatly, to a near empty kitchen. 

Bellamy chuckles. “Alright, two minutes, out at the barn.” 

He sets his mug down—Clarke’s not even surprised it’s empty—and then heads out of the kitchen. 

Well, that was unexpected.

The job offer, her kids being morning people all of the sudden, the kind-eyed, rough-handed farm manager...Clarke turns to the freezer, finds an ice cube and drops it in her coffee while she goes to find some shoes she won’t mind trekking through the mud outside.

She comes up with some old sneakers; not like she can remember the last time she went on a run. She doesn’t think any of her jackets will hold up, so she changes her sweater for a sweatshirt and heads back down to the kitchen. She’s pretty sure she’s already over her two minutes, but she takes a couple big sips of the coffee, then abandons it in the sink when she heads outside.

‘The barn’ really was a vague directive, but Bellamy’s in the main paddock, looking down at the chickens in the coop, tossing handfuls of something their way. He looks over his shoulder at her, then does a double take, shaking his head. “You don’t have a coat?”

Of course I don’t have a coat, she wants to say, up until a year ago, I existed indoors where there’s heating, or only had to be outdoors in pretty jackets for winter. Then my husband died and I had to sell literally everything in an estate sale, so yeah, no coats. 

“No coat,” she says aloud.

She waits for him to comment on it, something about being a city slicker. But instead, he frowns, almost concerned, and turns back to the animals. “Okay, we’ll have to get you one. So, these are chickens.”

Any pleasant surprise she felt at his apparent concern evaporates. “Believe it or not, I do know what a chicken is.”

Bellamy shrugs, still not looking at her. “Diyoza said to start from scratch, so here we are. These are the goats. That one’s Dolly, that one’s Reba, that one’s Selena, and that one’s Loretta.”

“After the singers?”

“After the singers,” Bellamy affirms. 

“Do they all have names?” Clarke asks.

“Yep. “Goat” will do, though, if you forget.”

What’s the point of a name if you don’t use it, Clarke thinks. 

“There’s, like thirty of them.”

“Thirty-two, yeah,” he says. 

Clarke doesn’t think there’s that many women in country music.

“Come on,” Bellamy says, when she doesn’t say anything.

Clarke follows him into the actual barn; her shoes are already soaked through. He shows her how to prep the goats, then hooks them up to the hoses, then tells her with a straight face that they need to be sung to. 

Clarke’s just relieved that she’s not going to be milking thirty-two goats by hand. 

Not so relieved that she’ll sing to goats. 

Bellamy’s lone ranger vibes intensify as he sings to them, some low, unidentifiable, country song. 

The goats like it too. 

Not that Clarke likes it, per se, just aesthetically, it’s a very complete image. 

Next on the tour is a walk-in refrigerator, massive, with prettily packaged lumps of cheese sitting in rows on the shelves. Clarke assumes they’re for the farmer’s market Aunt Dee mentioned, but it does seem like a lot of cheese. 

“This is way more than farmer’s market haul,” she says, looking through the rows, then back at Bellamy. He’s in the door, holding it open, and he nods, even though it wasn’t technically a question. 

“Marcus wanted to add a cheese business to the barn, but then he got sick.”

“With what?” Clarke asks, examining the labels. 

“Parkinsons,” Bellamy says, something heavy on his voice. “Now Diyoza’s got arthritis, and—”

Clarke looks up. “I didn’t know that.”

Bellamy shifts. “Probably why she offered to have y’all out here.”

Clarke replaces the cheese, wiping her hands on the back of her jeans. She thought she was here because Aunt Dee had room to share, not for any genuine takeover reasons. She looks around the fridge, all the neat rows. “All this is goat cheese?”

Bellamy nods, like it isn’t obvious.

“She could open such a cute little cheese store with these,” Clarke muses. 

Bellamy scoffs. 

Clarke looks back at him. “Pardon?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he says, rubbing his nose.

“No, what is it?” Clarke says, leaving the fridge, stopping in front of Bellamy in the doorway.

“Just...a hipster cheese store isn’t the solution to the farm’s problems.”

So he does think she’s a city slicker.

“I think you’ll find I didn’t say that at all,” Clarke says. “I was just commenting on the quantity.”

“Right,” Bellamy says, and he does look almost apologetic. 

Almost.

Clarke figures that’s as much as she can expect, so she leaves the doorway, hearing Bellamy shut it behind her.

A moment later, he’s ahead of her again, leading the way to a pasture. There’s a large gate at the start of it and Bellamy scales it, the kind of move you’d see in a Rockwell painting. He’s two steps away when he realizes Clarke’s in jeans, so he comes back. 

“While I’m at it,” he says, wrestling with the latch, “a good rule for gates is to leave ‘em how you found ‘em.”

“Rusted shut and splintering?” Clarke says, just for pettiness’ sake. 

Bellamy grunts, as the latch finally gives. “Cute. No, if they were open, leave it open; if it was closed, keep it that way.”

Clarke steps through the gate, then dramatically closes it, leaving it as it was. Bellamy looks like he wants to roll his eyes, but restrains himself.

He walks fast and Clarke has no idea where they’re going, so she just keeps her head down and tries not to think about the mud seeping through and staining her socks. 

She runs into Bellamy at the top of the hill. 

Literally bumps into him when he suddenly stops, stumbles back a step or two, ignores that fact that he doesn’t budge. He has his hands out to steady her, hovering a good foot away from her, and Clarke is pretty sure it’s because he thinks her city girl porcelain skin might break. 

“I’m fine,” she mutters. “Sorry. Why’d we stop?”

“Oh.” Bellamy looks down, then runs a hand through his hair. He shifts a bit, so he’s standing beside her, then just points. 

“It’s...it’s a great view,” he says, sheepishly. “Thought you might like it.”

Clarke’s surprised by that, but she looks.

The valley, it’s beautiful. 

In the mid-morning light, the fog is lifting, mist rising off blades of green, the field rustling in the slight wind. It’s green and ethereal and it’s calm, like Clarke hasn’t felt in years. 

Not since…

She wraps her arms around herself, holding her elbows, steadying herself. 

“Thank you,” she says quietly. 

Bellamy mumbles something back, but Clarke doesn’t hear it. 

Squinting in the sunlight, looking at the beautiful view, Clarke feels something in her soul settle. 

— 

“So you’re new in town.”

“Yeah, just here for a little bit.”

“At Aunt Dee’s?”

“Yep. Just these things, for me, ready to check out.”

“Sure. Is that a wedding ring?”

“Um, it is, yeah.”

“So you’re married.”

“I was.”

“Oh, divorced?”

“No.”

“Mysterious. What happened?”

“He’s gone; what’s my total?”

“$52.16. So did he—”

“Here’s sixty, keep the change.”

“Wait, but—”

“I have to go.” 

—

There’s no sleep like exhaustion sleep, and after a month at Aunt Dee’s, Clarke’s pretty sure she has the market cornered on that one. 

It doesn’t help that the whole rooster alarm thing is a lie. 

She finds that out when she comes downstairs an hour after Bellamy and Diyoza were expecting her, to be greeted with concerned expressions and ‘roosters can’t tell time’; that was a fun one.

But she’s almost getting the hang of it, the whole farm thing.

Coffee’s the secret, and wellingtons. Getting on and staying on everyone else in the town’s good side, also a help. That way the lady down at the feed store is more concerned about helping load feed than asking about her dead husband. 

She starts making cheese, too, with Aunt Dee. 

It comes after a particularly tense conversation where Clarke tries again to raise the concern that she’s not staying forever, and Diyoza just foraging ahead, saying she’ll appreciate having her as long as she does. 

They measure the rennet and curds and salt, do everything with their hands, and the whole thing feels grounding, holistic. 

Bellamy doesn’t improve.

He doesn’t digress or anything, but Clarke had secretly hoped to find a friend in him. Instead, she’s realized he’s a man of few words, not really the confiding type. He’s quick to interject when she’s doing something wrong, and Clarke’s just waiting for the day when he messes up, so she can jump in. 

At least the goats aren’t bothered when she rambles to them. 

She still refuses to sing to them, though. 

Aunt Dee announces that they’re having company for dinner while Clarke is thigh deep in dirty hay in the barn, and Clarke makes a new mental note to keep the dinner hours clear in the future, just in case. She meets Sinclair, who gives Aunt Dee a bouquet of posies and a kiss on the cheek; Clarke gets the feeling it’s a more than friends situation. Sinclair’s granddaughter is Raven the woman from the feed store. She apologizes for freaking Clarke out and offers to read her palm.

Clarke declines. 

Dinner passes quickly; Sinclair is full of stories, and the rest of the group is the listening type anyways. They drift apart afterwards—Aunt Dee and Sinclair go for a moonlit walk, Raven and Clarke tackle the dishes, Bellamy agrees to distract Madi and Ethan. When she and Raven come outside, Bellamy is playfighting with them, like they’re Newsies or something, but the kids are eating it up. 

They light a fire in the firepit, which Clarke has Some Concerns over, since pretty much everything on the farm seems flammable, but Bellamy and Aunt Dee convince her it’s fine. It’s a full house, Clarke

thinks, this is what a home is supposed to feel like. 

That night, she has the dream again. 

Can she call it a dream if it’s just a memory?

Running after Wells, telling him something’s going to happen, something’s going to happen, she just knows it. 

You worry too much, Wells says. 

I don’t feel good, Ethan says. 

Why does he get a day off, Madi says. 

And Clarke wakes up, wondering if it ever stops. 

She goes down to the kitchen for some water, and figures fresh air will do her some good too. She’s settling on the wicker chair when she notices a light from the barn. 

Damn it, Bellamy, she thinks. How could he forget to leave it on all night?

She’s trudging across the yard when a noise from the open barn startles her. 

Clarke’s doing her best to lock down her worrying too much gene, but really, how many options are there for what could be in their barn? She picks up a pitchfork as she gets to the edge of the barn, wishing she were wearing something a little more stealthy than her flannel pajamas. 

There’s a clinking sound as she gets closer.

She steadies herself, adjusts her grip on the pitchfork and yells as she kicks open the refrigerator door. 

Bellamy swears and tools clatter as he falls back. 

“Oh, are you kidding me,” Clarke lets out a breath, the pitchfork falling with a clatter. 

“No no no no no…” Bellamy rushes, jumping off the floor and rushing for the door. 

Clarke pushes her hair out of her face, coming off the adrenaline high. “What’s the matter with you, why are you out here in the middle of the night?”

Bellamy stares at her. “What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”

Clarke resists the urge to say that she asked him first, and instead just pulls the top of her pajamas a little tighter around her and raises her chin. “I saw the light on, and came to do the responsible thing and turn it off.”

Bellamy pulls a hand over his face. “Stellar work here, Clarke, exemplary.”

Clarke’s a little surprised by the multisyllabic word, but she frowns at him. “Why are you being an ass?”

“I,” Bellamy says, crossing back across the refrigerator, and kicking some of the scattered tools into a pile, “was fixing the door.”

Clarke looks back at the door. “What’s wrong with it?”

“You’re gonna love this,” Bellamy says, sitting on an icebox in the corner. “It only latches from the outside.”

Clarke looks between a very irate farm manager and a very shut refrigerator door. 

“From the outside,” she echoes.

“From the outside,” Bellamy says. 

This isn’t happening.

She walks over to the door, jiggles the handle; nothing. 

“What, did you think it was going to open because you asked nicely?” Bellamy asks, and she knows he’s not mad at her, but it certainly sounds that way. 

“Okay, you can’t blame me for trying, instead of immediately just giving up—”

“Is it giving up if the sole reason I’m here is because I know, with absolute certainty, that that door doesn’t open from the indoors?”

He’s right, of course, but Clarke doesn’t like it. 

“Do you have your phone; can we call Aunt Dee?”

“My phone’s on the other side of the door,” Bellamy says, voice muffled by his hands.

“Okay,” Clarke tries again, “So can we, like, yell or something?”

“We’re in an insulated box,” Bellamy says, like it’s physically paining him. 

“I’m trying to find a solution here, Bellamy—”

“There didn’t need to be a solution; I was handling—”

“Oh, I’m so sorry for caring about lights being left on and if someone was robbing us, Bellamy!”

“What the hell did I tell you about leaving doors how you found them, anyways?”

“Astonishingly enough, now’s not a great time for a lecture,” Clarke snaps. 

She lets go of the door. 

It was just after 1 when she came outside. 

They have a decent amount of the morning until someone will even potentially be awake. 

“Four hours, you figure?” she asks, voice smaller than she’d like. 

Bellamy’s jaw clenches. “If we’re lucky.”

Clarke purses her lips, looking around the refrigerator. “How cold does it get in here?”

“Pretty damn,” Bellamy mutters. 

He shifts and Clarke realizes he’s taking off his jacket. 

“Bellamy, that’s really not—”

“You’re in one layer, Clarke, don’t fight me on this right now.”

He tosses his heavy jacket at her, and Clarke wavers for a moment before putting it on. She is really cold already, and four hours is a long time…

The jacket’s warm, and it covers her fingertips. 

It also comes with a very distinctive smell, like pine needles, which Clarke tries her best to ignore. 

Bellamy’s found a piece of linen that he stretches across the icebox for him to sit on. Clarke’s pacing is making both of them nervous, but what is she supposed to do, just sit still?

Absolutely not. 

She has no way to tell how time is passing.

At some point, Bellamy starts sampling some of the cheeses, and Clarke’s coerced into trying some of them. 

They agree that Selena’s January was better than Dolly’s, but that Reba’s December puts them both to shame.

Clarke ends up doing some sort of calisthenics, to keep blood flowing and her temperature up. While she’s stretching, Bellamy hits her with a couple questions. 

Why is she at the farm—had to get out of Abby’s. 

Yeah, but why here—it beat couch surfing, and Aunt Dee seemed genuine in her offer.

He gets couch surfing, apparently, since his ex got the house. He doesn’t want to talk about her, though, so it’s back to Abby. 

Clarke explains how Abby’s been married four times, and that it took years of therapy for her to realize that her abandonment issues aren’t a complex, but a very clear and obvious link to her childhood trauma. 

Turns out having a college fund doesn’t make up for being left in hotels and homes, having her existence portrayed as a burden, and all of Abby’s unresolved issues projected onto her. 

Clarke knows she’s lucky, knows her mom married well and tried to do the best she could by her.

She also knows that that best wasn’t good. 

Bellamy gets quiet after that. 

He gets up, and stretches the cheesecloth a little farther, so Clarke can sit behind him on the icebox. 

Clarke goes, wondering how many hours until someone opens the door. 

She’s seen enough movies to know they probably shouldn’t fall asleep, but it’s somewhere way early in the morning and the goats will need tending when they get let out, and Clarke’s always tired after an emotional unloading, and the smell of pine trees is oddly soporific... 

The next thing she knows, Sinclair is standing in the sunlight of the door, smirking at them.

She registers that she’s turned a little bit, leaning against Bellamy in her sleep. Bellamy turned too, and more than that, his arm is actually around her.

For warmth, probably, or just trying to make himself comfortable after she fell asleep. 

“Oh thank God,” she says, jumping up and rushing towards the warm outdoors.

“You guys have a fun campout,” Sinclair says to Bellamy, and Clarke doesn’t have to see his face to hear the laughter on his voice.

“She got us locked in,” Bellamy says, voice scratchy from sleep.

Clarke doesn’t need to know that’s what he sounds like. 

She jumps up and down outside, the sun feeling so good against her skin. 

“Who decides to fix a door in the middle of the night,” she grumbles, because she doesn’t want Sinclair to think she’s any more incomptent than he already does. 

She hears Bellamy come out behind her, and he heads to the airstream. On her route back to the farmhouse, she remembers that she still has his jacket. She could get it to him later…

She jogs backwards a few steps, then turns and runs forward to catch up to him. 

“Clarke,” he sighs, recognizing her shadow beside him. “Can I just—“

“I’m only giving this back,” Clarke says, holding out the jacket. 

“Oh,” Bellamy says. He takes his coat, tucks it over his arm. 

“Thank you,” Clarke says.

He looks at her, almost surprised. “No problem.”

Clarke lifts a hand to shade her eyes in the bright sun, studying his expression. He didn’t have to give it to her, she probably would’ve been fine in her pajamas. 

Miserable, but, like, fine. 

He lets out a breath. “You’re welcome, Clarke.”

That’s all she’s waiting for. She spins on her heel, heading back to the farmhouse. Halfway there, she looks over her shoulder at him.

“Hey, Bellamy,” she calls, waits for him to turn. “The latch in the walk-in fridge is broken. You should probably fix that.”

He waves a hand like he’s swatting a fly, but Clarke thinks he’s smiling a little as he steps up into the airstream, and she’s alright with that. 

—

“Hey, new girl.”

“Oh, hi, Kyle.”

“You know, you’re pretty.”

“Oh...thanks, Kyle, I—”

“Pretty ugly!”

“W-what?”

“Ha! Aw, are you gonna cry, limper? You— Hey! Ow!! Ms. Vera!!”

—

Clarke lines her fingertips carefully up with each other, tapping them lightly to keep them from curling into fists. 

“The principal can see you now, Mrs. Jaha.” 

The secretary’s head disappears back into the office and Clarke stands quickly, following her into the office.

Why do all principal’s offices look the same, she wonders to herself. 

“Mrs. Jaha,” the principal stays seated, smiling politely. “Please have a seat.”

Clarke sits, jumping right into it. “Are you sure this was Madi’s fault? She’s never hit anyone, in her life, I don’t think—”

“Mrs. Jaha,” the principal says, words stretching over the same smile. “I understand it’s never easy to start at a new school, and especially during the middle of the year. But we do have a zero policy for violence here, and we have to expect our students to use words instead of hands when they’re teased.”

“Teased,” Clarke echoes. “Teased for what?”

The principal shifts. “Mrs. Jaha, Madi isn’t the first—”

“I’m sorry,” Clarke interrupts. “Zero violence should include zero bullying, right? Are you saying you expect my daughter to just endure whatever she’s told?”

“Madi isn’t the first gawky child; we can’t expect preferential treatment for that, can we?”

Clarke’s jaw actually drops. 

When she speaks again, she knows her voice is cold, but she has no interest in disguising her anger. “My daughter has a limp from a car accident. The one that killed her father. While she was beside him in the car.” 

The principal looks down. “We have a no violence policy,” she repeats. “This is grounds for suspension. One week.”

“Unbelievable,” Clarke mutters. 

“Mrs. Jaha, if you would just—”

“Thank you for your time,” Clarke stands, abruptly, finding she has little interest in whatever the principal has left to say. “I appreciate your efforts in welcoming my children into this school. I’ll talk with

Madi and we’ll see you next week.”

She doesn’t wait for the principal’s response, just strides out of the office, her work boots squeaking on the linoleum floor. 

On the chairs outside, Madi looks up, guiltily. Clarke softens her face, and holds out her hand; Madi jumps up and takes it. Clarke squeezes her daughter’s hand, encouraging, as they walk through the school, just in case anyone’s looking.

Her heart is pounding.

Bullying isn’t anything new, or even just teasing, if it was as mild as that. But she gets the feeling it isn’t, since Madi’s not a violent child. 

The first couple minutes of the car ride are quiet. 

“Are you mad?” Madi asks, five minutes in.

“I’m not,” Clarke says. 

“You’re quiet,” Madi observes. 

“I am,” Clarke looks over at her daughter. “I’m frustrated that someone hurt you, and you’re being punished for that.”

Madi looks down at her lap. “I did punch him, though.”

“You did,” Clarke agrees, thankful that her daughter can see that she’s not being punished for defending herself, just the method she chose. “I’m sorry that you felt you had to react that way.”

Madi doesn’t say anything for a long moment. When she speaks again, she looks out the window, and her voice wobbles. “He called me limper.”

Clarke’s hands tighten on the wheel, and she hates this, hates that her daughter has not only had to live through what she has, but that other small people will mock her for her pain. She probably shouldn’t swear around her daughter. But Madi’s 14, and words are just words, and she wants her daughter to know she’s on her side. 

“Fuck him,” she says.

Madi laughs, surprised. “Mom!”

Clarke shrugs. 

Madi’s smiling, and Clarke is okay with it. 

“Alright,” she says, as they turn off to the familiar dirt road, and parenting 101 kicks in. “First things first, language stays in this car, and not around your brother, right?”

Madi nods, like she’s been initiated into a secret society. 

“Second,” Clarke continues, “that kid’s a jerk, and I would say that to the principal, his parents, anyone; he shouldn’t have said that to you. But you can’t go around hitting people.”

“Yes, Mom,” Madi says. 

“Okay. You’re going to have to help with the goats, since you can’t go back to school.”

Madi nods again, and Clarke knows it’s not really punishment. 

She also really doesn’t think her daughter deserves a sentence. 

They drive under the trees and Clarke looks sideways at her daughter. “Where’d you learn how to throw a punch anyways?”

“Oh,” Madi says, turning in her seat to look at a bird perched on a fence post. “Bellamy taught me.”

Clarke brakes; the car jolts to a stop, and Madi yelps. “Mom!”

“Bellamy,” Clarke keeps her voice level, turning the car from heading to the farmhouse to the barn. “Taught you?”

“Yeah,” Madi says, voice slightly regretful. “I mean, it’s not a big deal.”

Not a big deal?

Clarke slams the car into park in front of the airstream, stalking through the grass over to it. She hears Madi get out of the car, scampering around it. 

“Mom, wait—”

She raps on the door of the airstream, turning back to her daughter. “Mads, do you want to go back to the house?”

“Not really, no,” Madi says. 

“Yeah?” comes a call from inside the airstream. 

Answer the door, don’t call like you’ve been paged, Clarke seethes internally. 

“Hey, Bellamy, it’s Clarke,” she calls aloud. 

A moment later, the door opens, and Bellamy’s head appears, smiling slightly. “Hey, Clarke. Oh, Madi, hi, what’s up?”

Madi waves, and Clarke runs a hand through her hair. “Yeah, hi, um, did you teach my daughter to fight?”

Bellamy looks at Madi, something like pride on his face, before he registers Clarke’s tone and looks back at her, eyebrows furrowing. “I mean, yeah, a couple moves.”

Clarke folds her hands. “Hmm. Okay, wow, well thank you, Bellamy Blake; my daughter has been suspended. For a week.”

“No kidding,” Bellamy looks back at Madi. “You got that Kyle kid?”

“What?” Clarke says.

Madi’s beaming at Bellamy and when he holds out a hand for a high five, she jumps up to hit it. 

“Hold up, hold up,” Clarke steps between the two of them, pointing at Bellamy. “You knew about this?”

Bellamy steps down from the airstream, his hand going behind his neck. “Uh, maybe?”

He knew. 

Clarke ignores the stabbing guilt, that Bellamy Blake, the guy her kids literally think is a werewolf, knew about problems at school and she didn’t.

She’s there for her kids, she reminds herself. She’s working to provide for them, and she’s present, as much as she can be. She’s not a bad mother, she’s not her mother.

But why didn’t Madi tell her?

Neither of them are looking at her. 

“I didn’t want you to be stressed,” Madi says, voice small. 

“Honey,” Clarke says, “you don’t have to be worried about me being stressed.”

“You’re a pretty anxious person, Clarke,” Bellamy says, behind her.

“You,” Clarke says, emotion choking her voice, and Bellamy actually backs up a bit when she turns back to him. “I did not ask you for your input on this. I did not ask you to teach my daughter how to fight, how to get suspended, from her new school, Bellamy—”

“Mom, I just—” Madi pipes from behind her.

“Go to the farmhouse, Madi,” Clarke says, and she smiles slightly so Madi knows she’s not mad at her. “Please. I just need a word with Bellamy.”

Madi looks like she wants to say something, looking between Bellamy and Clarke. Then she nods a little bit, and turns to head to the house.

Clarke counts to ten, so her daughter’s out of earshot, before turning back to Bellamy. 

“What the hell?” she asks, wishing her voice didn’t sound so quiet. 

Bellamy looks at her, then moves a bit, gesturing to the steps of the airstream. 

Clarke shakes her head, but he motions again and she goes. 

Sitting beside him, she wants to drop her head to her knees, just yell. 

Her daughter shouldn’t have to carry this.

Her daughter shouldn’t have to fight.

Her daughter should’ve been able to come to her.

She can’t even be mad at Bellamy, since he’s the one who apparently is there for her daughter. 

Clarke’s elbows are on her knees and she rests her forehead on her palms.

She needs Wells. 

He’s the diplomat, the one who could level with Madi, show her reason but make it seem cool, and not like it’s just Clarke’s anxiety.

But Wells is gone. 

And she’s all her kids have. 

Clarke sinks deeper into her hands, pressing into her eyes until the black shows stars. “I don’t know how to do this any better, Bellamy,” she says. 

“You’re doing great,” he says, but it’s not really convincing. 

“Yeah,” she sighs. “So great that my daughter comes to you for fighting lessons.”

Bellamy shifts beside her. “Kids sometimes need someone else. Just to back them up.”

Clarke lifts her head, blinking at the afternoon light. “Do you have children that I don’t know about?”

Bellamy laughs, a soft sound. “Nah. Kid sister, though. Raised her for...well, for a while.”

He’s looking out over the farm, eyes squinting at the sunlight, skin glowing a little. 

“I didn’t know that,” Clarke says quietly.

Bellamy lifts a shoulder. “Don’t talk about it much. Octavia, she used to get in trouble at school. People had a lot to say about our mom, her dad. I know fighting isn’t the solution, and I really am sorry that Madi got suspended. But for Octavia, it meant having a little bit of power that people seemed so determined to take from her.”

Clarke tips her head back, resting on the side of the airstream. “And you wanted Madi to have that.”

Bellamy nods. “Yeah.”

She can feel him shift, looking at her. 

“What?” she asks, after a moment.

“She’s trying to protect you,” Bellamy says. 

Clarke opens her eyes, finds concern on his face. “From what?”

Bellamy’s gaze returns to the farm. “You carry a lot, Clarke. We all see that, even your kids. I think we both figured this was something you didn’t have to.”

Clarke purses her lips. “I don’t think that’s either of y’alls call to make.”

Bellamy shrugs. “Maybe not.”

“But?” she prompts.

Bellamy leans over, picks up a blade of grass, peeling strips off it. “Are you going to blame her for caring?”

Clarke doesn’t know what to say to that. 

Bellamy stands, still looking out at the farm. “I’m going to go check in on Reba.”

“Sure,” Clarke says, not moving. 

Bellamy drops the grass, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I hope Madi kicked the piss out of him,” he says, and Clarke nods.

She can’t agree aloud, it feels like conceding, but she hopes so too.

He knows that.

Bellamy walks away, down to the rest of the farm, and Clarke gives herself a moment. She needs to move the van back to the farmhouse, check in with Madi, probably Aunt Dee too, but she stays still for a moment. 

She’d said it wasn’t for Madi or him to decide how much she carries; Bellamy had asked if she could blame Madi for caring. 

Clarke wonders if that means he cares too. 

— 

Winter melts into spring, and Clarke needs instruction less and less.

She and the goats make nice; she can make the chevre without Aunt Dee’s supervision. Madi goes back to school and they don’t hear about anymore fights, so that’s something. She and Aunt Dee start the garden, completely practical. Radishes, corn, lettuce; she even convinces Aunt Dee to let her plant some kale. 

Clarke catches herself looking forward to summer on the farm, before she can catch herself, remind herself that this is temporary. She has a life to get back to, a life to make, for her kids. 

Aunt Dee announces one Saturday night that Clarke will do the farmer’s market run the following morning, and Clarke thinks the level of excitement she feels over that is as good an indicator as any that her life is on hold.

She really is excited though.

She doesn’t get off the farm much, and she hasn’t been back to Houston in months, and there’s a daytrip vibe in the air when she and Bellamy load up his truck with boxes of cheese and set out. 

The truck is old—she knows, she’s had to coax it down to the feed store a couple of times—and she’s surprised when classical music comes out of the radio. Bellamy coughs and changes channels, switching to the country countdown. 

Clarke smiles out the window. 

The market is still setting up when they drive in. 

Bellamy leads the way through the white tents to their stall, and Clarke carefully unloads the cheeses, setting them in rows, labels facing the front. Bellamy pulls out a chalkboard and starts scrawling on it; Clarke takes over, immediately erases it, and writes out the cheeses and the specials in calligraphy. 

Bellamy rolls his eyes, but he does look a little impressed. 

The market opens at 8, and it’s slow for a minute, but then it’s nonstop. It’s easy to interact with the shoppers, and Bellamy slinks back to sit on their crates, seemingly happy to let her chatter.

Clarke has forgotten how fun it is to be around peers who seem to like conversation. So she tells people stories about Carrie Underwood and Trisha Yearwood—the goats, of course—and they laugh and politely purchase parcels. 

“Oh my god, Clarke Jaha?”

Clarke hears the voice over the bustle and is immediately whipped back in time to her debutante days. On instinct, she straightens her spine, fixes a perfect smile on her face, and brushes her hair behind her ears as she turns. 

“Jospehine,” she smiles.

“It is you!” Josephine purrs. “Girls, it’s Clarke!”

As if Kaylee and Priya can’t see her for themselves. 

They coo, rush over to the booth, smiling. 

“Look. At. You!” Kaylee says, a pause between her words like she can’t believe it herself. “How...natural you look!”

“Granola,” Priya agrees. “Isn’t that the thing you say, now?”

Clarke thinks that they look exactly the same, and wonders how much work they’ve had done since high school. 

“We haven’t seen you since the funeral,” Josephine says, pouting, eyes wide in sympathy, but zero expression behind them. 

“It’s been a while,” Clarke demures. “What, almost three years, now?”

“Something like that,” Kaylee says.

“Oh, we just miss Wells so much,” Josephine sighs. “Don’t we, girls?”

“We really do,” Priya agrees. “Tell us, honey, how are you doing?”

“Really,” Kaylee prompts. “How are you really doing?”

Clarke’s stomach tightens, like she doesn’t want to wipe Wells’ name off their lips. Everyone had been shocked when he’d been her escort at the debutante ball, pretended it was just a surprise, nothing deeper. 

People had traded seating cards, to not sit with them, and none of their pictures had turned out. 

Screw you three, Clarke thinks, with your expensive botox, and your pretension. 

“I’m well,” she says, voice perfect. “The kids are doing great, too.”

She’s forgotten how easy this is, to play perfect like her life depends on it. 

She’s gotten really good at it over the years. 

“And you’re making cheese now?” Kaylee asks.

“How sweet,” Josephine says.

“Just selling,” Clarke says, because even in her charade, she can’t really take credit for it. “Helping out where I can.”

“We buy this every week,” Josephine says. “It’s so good. Well, that and...”

She trails off, giggling, and the other girls laugh too, like little bells. 

“Okay,” Clarke says, truly not caring why they’re amused. “So, can I get anything for you today?”

“Hmm,” Josephine says, tapping her sunglasses against her lips. “I’ll take a Shania and a Reba.”

“Sure,” Clarke says, selecting the two cheeses, and slipping them into a white paper bag. “That’ll be $14.”

Josephine hands her a $20, leaning closer to whisper, “You can keep the change.”

Clarke considers ripping the $20 in half to show Josie just what she thinks of her change, but she hears Bellamy walking up beside her and smiles. 

“That’s okay, we don’t take tips,” she says kindly. 

“No, I insist,” Josephine says. “Oh, hi Bellamy.”

Bellamy tips his chin at them, and Priya giggles again. 

So that’s why they come, Clarke thinks. 

Some things never do change, like Stepford wives who like to look but still consider themselves superior. 

“I insist, too,” Clarke says, hearing an edge on her voice, and handing $6 to Josephine with the bag. “It’s good to see y’all.”

“Oh but we—” Kaylee begins.

“Really,” Clarke smiles. “Hope you girls have a lovely Sunday.”

Kaylee’s jaw drops and Josephine’s eyes narrow, but they recover and they step out of their line. 

Clarke motions for the next person to step up, feeling tension leave her back as the girls get farther away. 

She helps the next customer, and then the next one, and then she feels Bellamy step up beside her. 

“You good there?” he says, under his breath, restocking the table with cheese from the truck. 

“Peachy,” Clarke says.

“You sure?” Bellamy asks, and his eyes feel a little heavy on her, like he knows she’s lying, and that, more than anything, makes her need a minute.

“I’m going to take a walk,” she says, avoiding eye contact.

He nods, steps aside to let her leave the booth.

Clarke beelines for the restroom, expression poised, insides boiling.

How dare they. 

Stand in front of her, condescend, pretend to care about her and her family, about Wells…

She darts into the last stall, latches the door and leans against it, breathing out, slow. 

She’s fine.

This is fine.

Just childish drama, and she’s better than this, beyond it. 

A moment later, the door bangs, and there’s the sound of bags shifting as people parade in front of the mirror. 

“God, that was so sad,” Josephine says, and Clarke almost laughs, because of course this is happening. 

“What is it about her,” Kaylee’s voice now, “that is just so irritating?”

“She’s just one of those people, K,” Josephine says, voice contorted. Clarke can picture her, smudging her lipstick in the mirror. 

Priya hums in agreement. 

“Y’all know I just feel sorry for her,” Josephine says, rustling in her bag, presumably for more gloss. “Her husband dies, leaves her broke...not that we’re surprised, you know.”

“I don’t know what she expected,” Kaylee says. “You know, he just...well, it just didn’t surprise me.”

“Tell you girls a secret?” Josephine says, voice conspiratorial. 

“You know we keep a secret,” Priya says, and there’s more laughter. 

“I went to her estate sale,” Josephine says. 

Clarke’s heart stops. 

“You didn’t,” Priya gasps.

“I did,” Josephine preens. “She had the same wedding china as me, y’all know I can always use more place settings.”

“Oh, that’s just awful,” Kaylee sings. 

More giggles and Clarke really contemplates kicking open the door, just standing behind them in the mirror and watching the guilt work its way across their faces.

“You don’t think she and the hot farmer are—”

“Seriously, Priya?” Josephine snorts. “As if. You saw her in that flannel, she looks like a lumberjack. There’s no way she and Bellamy are doing anything more than selling cheese together.”

Clarke almost laughs.

Because clearly, the takeaway from this whole interaction is whether she’s hot enough to be fucking Bellamy. 

They continue their prattle, complimenting each other and then rustling out of the bathroom with their wedged heels and superiority, and Clarke unlatches the door. 

She stands in front of the mirror for a long time. 

Hair in a braid, dirty overalls, faded flannel. Maybe she does look a bit like a cartoon, but she feels no shame in her appearance. She’s working for her kids, she’s working with her hands; there’s nothing to be ashamed of. 

Something glimmers in her reflection’s eyes. 

Damn it, Clarke thinks.

She hates how easily she went back to who she was in high school. 

Lying, smiling pretty, suppressing her emotions and refusing to be difficult. Ever the people pleaser, ever the actress. 

She’s better than that now.

Isn’t she?

Clarke lifts her chin as she steps out of the bathroom. The farmer’s market is still bustling, but it seems too loud now. Every laugh, every family, everything around her seems like sunshine and cheeriness, exposing her own bitterness and emptiness.

When she gets back to the booth she’s done, she just needs it to stop.

She wants to be on the hill at the farm, looking out over the rolling grass, breathing air that’s just for her, clean, not contaminated by Josephines and Kaylees and everyone else in the city with their vapid thoughts and hateful tongues.

“We need to go,” she says, stepping back into the booth, pulling boxes off the table. 

Bellamy holds up a hand to whoever is at the front of the line, and grabs her elbow, pulling her back into the tent. 

“What now?”

“It’s not a big deal, I just need to...not be here right now.”

Bellamy frowns. “Clarke, what’s going on?”

Clarke is about to say it’s nothing, she’s fine, then she hears a crystal laugh. Turning, she sees Josephine and Priya and Kaylee, laughing at something a few tables down. Tossing their curled hair, sunglasses on, deliberately not looking at her.

“Um,” she says, wondering how to put it into words. “So, I go way back with those women.”

“Yeah, I caught that,” Bellamy says. “They seem like the kind of people you’d want to leave in the past.”

Clarke huffs; he’s not wrong. “They’re just, they’re awful, Bellamy, and I don’t like who I am around them.”

Bellamy looks over at them, then back to her. It’s not lost on Clarke that Josephine and the girls are preening for Bellamy, smiling with all their teeth and laughing prettily. 

“What do you mean,” he asks, genuinely confused, “who you are around them? You’re just you, nothing to be ashamed of.”

Clarke runs a frustrated hand through her hair. “I know, and I’m not, I’m not, I just...They’re the kind of people who make me feel less than, just by existing. I heard them in the bathroom, having a laugh about how much of a mistake my life is, how sorry they feel for me.”

Bellamy shakes his head. “Why would they feel sorry for you?”

Clarke laughs, and it comes out almost broken. “Well, for starters, Josephine bought my wedding china at my estate sale, so now she can seat 24. They think I look like a lumberjack, and it’s actually hilarious to them to think of me being attractive to anyone, which, by the way, is why they came over, to talk to you, and they don’t—”

Bellamy cuts her off.

He grabs the straps of her overalls, pulls her, and when she catches herself against his chest, he’s kissing her.

It’s been a while since she’s been kissed, even longer since it’s someone new and this is Bellamy, of all people. Bellamy whose hands slip from her overalls to the back of her neck, who tastes like espresso and smells like pines, who kisses her like the rest of the world isn’t watching and like he wishes he could have more.

He stops and Clarke stumbles a little when he pulls back. 

The farmer’s market returns around her, the crowds, the laughing, the people, and Clarke blinks her eyes open, slowly. 

Bellamy looks different, up close.

Or maybe he always looks like this, like he’s looking at her just to look and not to correct how she handles the goats or pitches hay or washes down the hoses. He has some freckles over nis nose, speckled like paint, and she can see them peaking underneath his beard, and his eyes crinkle a little when he smiles, catching her staring. 

His hands leave her neck, drop to her upper arms to steady her.

“Not as good as the right hook I taught Madi,” he says, voice low. “But it does the same trick of getting bullies to shut the hell up.”

Clarke listens, and there’s no crystal laugh; if she turns, she knows there won’t be any more hair flips or girls she used to know.

She nods, mute, and Bellamy steps back a little. “Okay, then,” he says, and then he goes back to the line of people.

Clarke touches her lips, mind catching up to her. In a moment, she’ll step up beside Bellamy, package the little chevre parcels, tell people stories about Taylor Swift and Jo Dee Messina as they order their cheese. 

She’ll try not to think about what just happened, or the fact that she would definitely count it as better than a right hook. 

They sell out in another hour or two, reload the empty crates into the truck, and make the drive back to the farm. They don’t talk about it, settling on a debate of the merits of higher education, instead.

When they get back to the farm it’s nearing dark; they’re unloading the crates when Bellamy’s phone rings. 

“Hello,” he answers, crate on his hip. His movement stops, suddenly, and Clarke nearly runs into him when she turns to take the crate from him. He lets it go, but doesn’t move to get the next one.

“When?” he asks.

Clarke looks at his expression, suddenly tense, and moves around him to grab the last few crates from the bed of the truck. She sets them on the ground instead of walking them over to the barn, knows it’s the right call when Bellamy nods abruptly. 

“Alright,” he says to the phone, checking his watch and then that the bed of the truck is empty. “Yeah. I’m on my way.”

“What is it?” Clarke asks, as he hangs up. 

“Aaron,” he says. “I’ve got to go.”

“Sure,” Clarke says, trying to place an ‘Aaron’ from any of their conversations. “Yeah, I’ve got these, no problem.”

“Thanks,” Bellamy says, rushing around the car. He hesitates before he gets in, looking back at her. 

“Go on,” Clarke says, and he nods, a flicker of a smile, as he climbs back in. 

“Thanks.”

She shrugs, nothing to thank her for. He gives her a long look, then drives off. 

Clarke stacks the crates in the barn, mind lagging.

What a day. 

Inside the farmhouse, Aunt Dee and the kids have ridiculous tin foil hats on their heads, sitting around the kitchen table, and Clarke smiles at the image. It’s a strange home, this one that she’s found for them, but it’s some kind of special.

She tucks Ethan into bed, and Madi waves her away when she goes to follow her; she and Diyoza fix some of the mysterious tea. 

“How was the market?” Aunt Dee asks, watching the steam coming out of the kettle.

Clarke runs through a couple responses, settling on, “Eventful.”

Aunt Dee hums. 

“Bellamy had to run off,” Clarke says, keeping her voice casual. “Something happened to ‘Aaron’?”

Diyoza switches off the burner when the kettle switches to boiling. “I’ll have to call him, check in.”

“Who’s Aaron?” Clarke asks, bringing the mugs over to the stove. 

“His ex-wife.”

So Erin, Clarke thinks, not Aaron. 

“She had a stroke, some years back,” Aunt Dee says, waving at the steam that comes out of the mugs.

Clarke didn’t know that. “How old is she?” she asks.

Aunt Dee shrugs. “Same age as him. She has a nurse, but he’s out there all the time.”

Clarke takes her mug back to the table; Aunt Dee follows her. 

They sit for a moment in comfortable silence, interrupted by a knock on the door. 

Clarke frowns. “Expecting someone?”

“No one I know knocks,” Aunt Dee says. 

The knock again, and Clarke almost laughs, a memory triggering recognition. “We know that knock,” she says, leaving the tea, and running her hand through her hair as she goes to the door.

She opens the door, sees perfectly curled hair, a blue blouse and a face free of wrinkles. “Hi, Abby,” she says.

“Well, that’s quite a greeting.”

Clarke considers leaving the screen closed, letting her mother talk to her through it, but she purses her lips, steps back, opens it. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see my daughter,” Abby says, stepping into the foyer. “God, this place looks the same. What are you doing here, Clarke?”

“Making cheese,” she says.

Abby laughs, expression not changing, and walks through to the kitchen. 

“Charmaine,” she says, sitting at the table.

Aunt Dee gets up, standing against the sink instead. “Abby.”

Abby’s lips curl into a smile. 

She looks back at Clarke, taking in her daughter’s overalls, flannel, frizzy hair. “Honey, look at you.”

Clarke thinks that it’s a cosmic joke, that she hasn’t thought about her appearance in months, and now that’s twice in one day that people have thrown it at her.

“When’s the last time you milked a goat, Mom?”

Abby shudders and Aunt Dee’s cough sounds suspiciously like a laugh. 

“This is what I mean, sweetie,” Abby says. “You don’t have to do this anymore, you know.”

She always makes herself sound so gracious. 

So giving, so kind and thoughtful, like she’s only looking out for Clarke’s best interests. 

Clarke isn’t falling for it again. “Madi and Ethan are happy here, Mom.”

“And you think they wouldn’t be happy with their own grandmother?”

Incredible, really, how quickly she can make this about her. Her lip trembles, a picture of scorned love and Clarke wants to scream. 

“I don’t,” Clarke says, not to be cruel, but because it’s the truth.

“Clarke,” Abby says, looking down and letting out a deep breath. “I forgive you.”

“Oh, Lord,” Aunt Dee mutters. 

“You,” Clarke repeats, “forgive me?”

“I do,” Abby sighs, sympathy on her face. “For leaving.”

“Yeah, I’m not doing this,” Aunt Dee sets her mug down in the sink. “Clarke, I’ll be out front; let me know when you’ve taken out the trash, and I can come back in.”

“Really classy, Charmaine,” Abby seethes. “Such a wonderful hostess.”

“Always a pleasure, Abby,” Aunt Dee says, not even looking over, walking out of the kitchen.

The screen door slams, and Clarke looks back to her mother, drawn up in her benevolence. 

“You made me unwelcome in your house, Mom,” Clarke says. “You belittled my daughter and made her insecure.”

Abby fiddles with a bracelet on her wrist. “I just wanted her to have a mothering opinion, sweetie. You were so caught up, and—”

“Caught up?” Clarke interrupts. “Mom, my husband died. I lost my house, my life crumbled, and you expected me to continue on as if nothing had happened.”

“You were having a hard time, yes, but it’d been eighteen months since Wells, and you’d been on my couch for a year.”

Clarke stares at her. “I should’ve been able to stay for ten more years,” she says. “I can’t believe you have the gall to lecture me about leaving.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Abby asks, voice clipped.

“You know what it means,” Clarke snaps. “Days alone in the house when I was too young to know if you were coming back, constant criticisms on my appearance when you were back—”

“I cannot believe you are so ungrateful,” Abby breathes. “I gave you an education, lovely clothes, great vacations—”

“Abby, you left me in hotel rooms.”

“They were very nice hotels,” Abby says, waving a hand. “So many children would love that opportunity, but you’ve always loved playing the victim haven’t you?”

Clarke is speechless.

“Things, Mom,” she says, finally, thinking of the first day she set foot on this farm with her children. 

Abby purses her lips. “Alright, what does that mean?”

“It means you gave me things, but not time. You bought gifts, but never shared affection or presence. What I have on this farm, with these overalls and my frizzy hair, is time for my children, and I will not be made to feel ashamed for that.”

Abby fidgets with her bracelet again. “This isn’t you, Clarke.”

Clarke laughs, a terrifying sound. “You have no idea what is or isn’t me, Mom. It’s time for you to go.”

Abby gasps. “Surely, you don’t—”

“I do,” Clarke says, pushing off the counter. “I hope you have a safe drive home.”

Abby stands slowly, smoothing out her skirt. “Well, I’m so happy I drove all the way out to the boonies for this loving welcome.”

Clarke doesn’t say anything. 

Abby shakes her head, walks down the short hallway, door slamming behind her. 

Clarke hears them out front, Diyoza and Abby, a clipped exchange between sisters, and the revving of Abby’s Lincoln as it drives away. 

—

“Clarke are you in here?”

“Raven?”

“Yep. Damn, it smells back here.”

“It’s a barn, Ray. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I’m your new Bellamy.”

“What?”

“Diyoza asked me to come help out, since Bellamy’s tied up with...well, you know.”

“Oh. Um, okay, sure. Grab that bag of feed over there?”

“This one?”

“Yep. Watch your—uh, step.”

“Damnit.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m not.”

“This is disgusting.”

“You’re not wrong.” 

— 

Raven picks things up quickly, not that Clarke’s surprised. She’s the shiniest thing about this town, and working with her makes Clarke realize how much she’s picked up over the last couple of months. 

It’s summer before anyone realizes it. 

The kids delight in the berry patch behind the house; she and Aunt Dee harvest the garden they planted in April. 

Raven tries to convince her into a seance; Clarke declines.

She does let herself get talked into a field trip to a haunted house. It’s disconcerting when Raven leads them through the fields up to a house that seems like it’s still on Diyoza’s property, and they spend an hour poking around, just to see what they can find. 

Raven lets it slip that this is where the teens from the town come to lose their virginity or try to talk to the dead, and Clarke decides that’s enough adventuring for the night.

She asks Aunt Dee about the house, why no one’s there. 

She just says it’s where she lived with Marcus, and once he passed, she wanted a new place.

Clarke gets that. 

Still.

A couple nights later, she finds herself waking from the same dream, staring at the ceiling of her room. Not that it was a conscious decision last time, but she knows that there’s no one fixing a refrigerator door; Bellamy’s airstream has been quiet for almost a month now. 

She’s alone on this one.

She slips on her boots, grabs a sweater and steps outside, enjoying the still of the night as she always does. She listens to the cicadas, the rustling of the wind through the leaves, and lets her feet

wander.

It doesn’t surprise her that she ends up back at the old house. Something about feels familiar, probably just the architectural similarity to the farmhouse. 

A place to talk to the dead, Raven had said…

She walks over to the porch, turns from the boarded up door to look back over the valley. She can see the farmhouse, the porchlight she left on, in the valley; she sits on the porch.

Tilts her head back, looks at the stars. 

She finds Orion first, then the Little Dipper. She’s never sure if she imagines the Big Dipper or not; it’s too spread out. 

Wells had loved constellations.

He always looked up, always marvelled; Clarke was the grounded one and he was the visionary. 

It’ll be three years in a couple months, Clarke realizes.

God, she misses him. 

Every day, every damn day, but some days she thinks he’d be proud of her.

She can’t picture him on the farm, and she feels guilty about that. 

Clarke tilts her head, finding Cassiopeia. 

How can she miss someone so much, resent them for leaving, mourn for what could have been, release them from the rest of her life, all at once?

She loves him. 

She hopes he’s resting.

She hopes he’s among these stars, somewhere between Pegasus and Draco, shining down on her. Finally in the stars where he always strove to be. The very thing he admired most. 

I love you, she whispers. You don’t have to stay. 

The stars don’t twinkle back, no meteor send back a response. 

But she thinks he probably heard her, all the same. 

—

Fall comes, and the kids go back to school.

Clarke can’t believe they’ve been at this place for as long as they have. The air feels a little colder in the morning, the goats take a little more convincing to give milk.

Maybe, if nobody’s around, she sings to them.

Billy Joel, just to be contrarian. They have enough country influence, anyways.

Aunt Dee’s birthday is coming up, and she has a rule that people can’t buy her presents, so they have to be creative. 

So, maybe she and Ethan and Madi cheat a little.

They buy mugs from the dollar store in town, and paint on them, bake the designs in. It’s the best Clarke can do; she doesn’t really have the Home Ec gene.

Clarke is unloading feed from the back of her van when she realizes the truck is parked in front of the airstream. Bellamy’s out in front, on a lawn chair, being very productive and staring at nothing. It looks like he’s fiddling with something, but she’s not sure what. 

She settles the bag so it stands on its own and heads over. 

“You look tired,” she says, as she gets closer. She doesn’t mean for it to be the first thing she says, but she’s struck by the bags under his eyes, the tired stare. He jolts, looking over at her. 

“Thanks,” he says wryly. 

“How do you feel?” she asks.

“Tired,” Bellamy says. 

Clarke perches on one of the steps of the airstream, giving him space. She can’t imagine what he’s going through, but it doesn’t look like he’s weathering it too well. The thing in his hands is a block of wood and a swiss army knife; looks like he’s whittling something, which is pretty on brand.

“How’s Erin?” she asks, when he doesn’t seem inclined to talk.

“As well as she always is,” he says, and wood shavings fall away. “Something’s gotta give, you know?”

Clarke nods. 

They don’t say anything for a couple minutes, just two people, held together by will, on a farm they’re not sure they belong to. 

Bellamy blows on the block, sawdust scatters.

“Present for Aunt Dee?” Clarke asks.

“Yep,” Bellamy says.

“You coming to the party?” she asks. For someone so practical, Aunt Dee is pulling out the stops for this one—a band, catered barbecue, string lights all over the barn. It’s a couple days away still, but Clarke knows it’s been at the forefront of the woman’s mind for weeks now. 

“Don’t know if I feel up for a party,” Bellamy says. 

That’s fair, Clarke thinks.

More silence, more shavings.

“Well,” she says, standing again. “It’s good to see you, Bellamy.”

“You too,” he says, without looking up. 

In another world, with another person, Clarke would put a hand on his shoulder as she walks by, say something comforting, encouraging. But she doesn’t know what they are, so she lets it be, just hopes that he knows.

She walks back towards the house. 

“Hey, Clarke.”

She turns back when he calls. 

Bellamy gestures to the farm with the knife, a half-smile on his face. “The farm looks like shit.”

Clarke laughs, surprised, pleased. “Yeah, well. I had a terrible teacher.”

He grins, and it’s a pretty thing, Clarke decides. 

“Clarke!”

It’s Aunt Dee who calls her voice this time, and Clarke hears something on her voice. She’s on the steps of the porch, home line in her hand. 

“It’s Madi, Clarke,” she says, worried. “The school called; she’s hurt.”

Clarke’s heart plummets. “What?”

“I’ll drive,” Bellamy says, and when she registers his voice, the knife and wood are on the ground; he’s already jogging towards the truck.

The drive to the school seems to take hours, though it’s only twenty minutes. 

They run through the school hallway, bursting into the nurse’s office where the nurse jumps, and Madi looks relieved. 

Her head is bleeding. 

Clarke shoves her worry down, crossing the room to her daughter, touching the unbloodied part of her forehead. 

“Hey honey,” she says, soothing as she can, “I’m here; are you okay?”

Madi nods, lips trembling, but face determined.

“The head always bleeds a lot,” the nurse says. “The wound’s superficial.”

Like hell, Clarke thinks, looking at the amount of blood on Madi’s shirt. 

“What happened?” she asks Madi, rather than address the nurse.

Madi looks down. 

“Honey, it’s okay,” she promises. 

“Kyle pushed me into a fence,” Madi says. “I used my words, and he still—”

“Shh,” Clarke soothes. She keeps her face steady; wanting to find this kid and shove his face through a fence. “What’s his last name, Mads?”

“Collins,” says a voice from the door, and Clarke turns to see the principal. 

“What the hell is this,” Clarke says, struggling to keep calm. “You suspended my daughter for standing up for herself, she tries to diplomatically resolve the situation, and now she has a head wound??”

“I don’t know if diplomatic is the right choice of words,” the principal says, and Clarke is relieved for Bellamy’s hand, suddenly just above her elbow, keeping her in front of Madi. 

“Tell me, Principal,” he says, voice steady. “What choice of words merits getting shoved into a fence?”

The Principal looks down. “Mr Collins will be held accountable.”

“No, no, I’m curious,” Clarke says, seething. “What—”

“Clarke—” Bellamy warns.

“The exact phrase was ‘back the fuck off’.”

Good, Clarke thinks.

Then she realizes this one is on her, not Bellamy, but she doesn’t give a damn because her daughter is bleeding, and the Principal seems more concerned with law and order than her child’s safety. 

She doesn’t break eye contact with the Principal. “I’m proud of you, Madi,” she says, then looks down at her daughter, smiling reassuringly. “For standing up for yourself and using words.”

“Mrs. Jaha,” the Principal’s voice is sharp. “May I speak with you in my office.”

Clarke shakes her head, looking back at the woman. “One week’s suspension? Two? Whatever you’re going to say to me, to punish my daughter for something that isn’t her fault, I don’t need to hear it in a backroom.”

The principal clenches her jaw. 

“Two weeks,” she says, at length. “And a second warning.”

“Fine,” Clarke says. “And Kyle?”

“The same,” the Principal says.

Clarke can’t look at her. She’s probably holding Madi’s hand a little too tightly, and maybe later she’ll regret not being diplomatic, but right now she wants Madi to know whose side she’s on. 

When no one says anything, the principal leaves. 

“Clarke, you need to breathe,” Bellamy says, quietly. 

At first, she’s ready to fly off at him, but then she realizes he’s not being snide, she isn’t breathing properly. She look at him, then deepens her breath. 

“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” she says to Madi, who shrugs. 

Her daughter shouldn’t have to shrug off being physically bullied. 

The bell rings outside the nurse’s office, and they watch the hallway fill with kids as class lets out for the day. 

“Hey, Mads, I’m curious,” Bellamy says, as students filter by, “you see Kyle?”

They watch the crowd of students, and after a minute, Madi’s grip on Clarke’s hand tightens. 

“There he is,” she says, and Clarke’s relieved that it’s anger on her daughter’s voice, instead of fear. “Blue shirt.”

“I’ll be right back,” Bellamy mutters. 

“Um, sir, I don’t think you should—” the nurse falls silent when the door shuts. 

Bellamy comes back a couple of minutes later, expression suspiciously blank. 

“We just had a talk,” he says to the nurse. “Promise.”

“Thank you,” Madi says.

“Sure thing,” Bellamy responds, and Clarke’s pretty sure that the principal wouldn’t approve of the exchange, but she’s certainly grateful for it. 

They get Madi home, an uneventful trip, and Clarke tries to push the whole incident out of her mind. Maybe she’ll look at private school for Madi next year, or another county or something. Maybe it’s time for a strongly worded letter...she’s not sure the solution, but she knows that this weekend is for Aunt Dee. 

The kids are excited to dress up.

She takes them down to Houston to find some cowboy boots, and they’re practically giddy with excitement to wear them. Clarke makes sure the leather is soft enough to not need breaking in, so they won’t have blisters at the end of the night. 

She doesn’t have as much time as she’d like to get ready, but when she gets back to her room after her shower, there’s a box on her bed.

It’s something out of a movie, cardboard and half the size of the bed, and Clarke finds an index card tucked under the ribbon. 

“Sometimes, you just need a pretty dress and somewhere to wear it. - Aunt Dee.”

Clarke shakes her head; it’s Diyoza’s birthday, but she bought Clarke a dress. Her breath catches when she unties the ribbon and removes the lid. 

It’s red, drapey and beautiful with a bardot neckline and a skirt that looks like it’s made for twirling. Prettier than anything hanging in her closet, but not too fragile for a barn. 

Of course it fits perfectly. 

She doesn’t spend too much time in front of the mirror these days, and the kids are waiting downstairs anyways, so she hurries. Madi has a gingham dress and Ethan has a bolo; Clarke thinks they look like a postcard.

When the three of them get to the barn, the kids run off almost immediately, weaving out of the two-stepping couples, piling plates high with sticky bits of barbecue. 

Raven appears out of nowhere, dragging Clarke out onto the floor. 

She can’t remember the last time she danced, but the banjo isn’t half bad and everything looks pretty in fairy lights, so she falls in line. The steps come back, and the open bar does its trick, and Clarke can’t believe how familiar this feels.

Like maybe this is where she’s supposed to be.

Raven’s been making eyes at a guy with a Air Force jacket for most of the night so Clarke pushes her in his direction and heads outside to try and locate her kids. She finds them tossing horseshoes with a couple other kids who’ve come over.

It’s a large turnout, not that Clarke’s surprised. 

Aunt Dee would say it’s because no one can turn down a free meal, but they all know it’s because everyone has a soft spot for her. Laughter abounds, beers clink, and Clarke weaves her way through the crowd back inside. 

She recognizes a head of curls sitting on a bale of hay near the back of the barn. 

“This seat taken?” she asks when she gets closer.

Bellamy looks up, eyes crinkling. 

He does that a lot, Clarke thinks, smiles with his eyes instead of his mouth. 

He shakes his head, and she sits beside him. 

“So,” she says, voice raised above the music. “You made it after all.”

Bellamy nods. “Figured it’s better to be mopey in the corner of a crowded barn than out behind it, just listening.”

Clarke whistles. “So you’re a delight at parties.”

His eyes crinkle again, and he looks over at her. “You look nice.”

Clarke looks down at the dress, the red spread prettily over the hay. “Aunt Dee bought it for me; it was really kind of her.”

“I didn’t mean the dress, Clarke,” Bellamy says, and when she looks at him, he’s taking a long drink, so she can’t read his expression.

He looks nice too.

Usually his hair is hidden under that ridiculous hat, but tonight it’s out, dark and curly, and Clarke likes that it’s a little wild, like him. 

“Alligator?” she asks, pointing at his boots.

Bellamy looks down, tapping his toes together absently. “Did you go to high school in Texas if you didn’t get a pair as a graduation present?”

Clarke lifts her bottle in a salute. 

The band picks up a new song, and Clarke wiggles her eyebrows at Raven over the pilot’s shoulder. 

She looks back at Bellamy, who’s also watching the crowd. It’s not wistfulness on his face, just observance. 

She wonders what goes on behind those brown eyes. 

“What?” he asks, and Clarke looks away. 

She shakes her head. 

“You want to just ask?” Bellamy says, a hint of humor on his voice.

“About what?” Clarke asks. 

“Erin, I assume,” Bellamy says, and Clarke takes that in. 

Right, she thinks. What else is she supposed to be curious about.

“Do you want to talk about her?” she asks.

“Not really,” Bellamy says, shifting. “But, I never do, and that hasn’t gotten me very far.”

So he wants to talk about it. 

Clarke parses through a couple questions. “How did you meet?”

Bellamy gives her a look, suspicious, and Clarke doesn’t resent it. If they’re going to talk through the ugly, they might as well go through the golden first.

“Alright,” he says. “Um, in college. We were both RAs at Texas Tech.”

Clarke smiles at the image of Bellamy coaxing drunk teenagers back to their dorm rooms, or trudging sleepily to the lobby to unlock the door for a freshman who forgot their key. It fits him, that kind of begrudging responsibility.

“And how long were you together?”

“Got married after she graduated,” he says. “Made it four years.”

Clarke waits. 

Bellamy sighs, shifting the bottle in his hands. “She worked a couple days a week in Austin, met someone there...asked for a divorce, simple as that.”

It’s never as simple as that, Clarke thinks.

“And you gave her one,” she says.

“It’s what she wanted,” Bellamy nods. 

“And you?”

Bellamy looks over. “What about me?”

“What did you want?”

Bellamy laughs a little, like it’s inconsequential. 

“Anyways,” he says. “The new guy split, once she cleared the hospital, after the stroke. Her parents are out in El Paso; they’ll move her out there. Eventually.”

Clarke wonders how long ‘eventually’ has lasted for.

And if he will continue to carry everything until it comes to an end. 

She bites her tongue to keep from asking again what he wants.

“That’s hard,” she says instead, an understatement. 

“It is,” he says.

The banjo fades and the bass guitarist sets up. He plays a single riff and the crowd cheers as they recognize it.

“Okay, come on,” Bellamy says, standing.

Clarke looks at him, down at the extended hand in front of her. 

It feels like...like something, and if she stays here, on her bale of hay, nothing will change.

She takes his hand, pulling herself up, wrinkling her nose. “Footloose, seriously?”

Bellamy laughs, and once they’re on the floor he tugs. Clarke spins under his arm, then he lets her go, as everyone falls into rows. 

“Oh, so we’re doing this, okay,” Clarke says.

“Show us how it’s done, City Girl,” Raven calls, a couple rows away, dipping an invisible Stetson at her.

Clarke flourishes her skirt like it’s a flamenco instead of a line dance, and Raven laughs.

The singer steps up to the mic, but he doesn’t need to; everyone is yelling out the words, off key and proud, as they dance out the steps. 

Funny the things you can’t forget.

Everyone cheers when the song ends, some people stomping their feet and everyone clapping. Clarke’s breathing a little heavier than she’d expect, especially given how much manual labor the farm takes, but she feels lighter than she has in months. 

The band bows dramatically. 

Clarke is heading back to the bale when she’s pulled back. Bellamy catches her when she turns, and she shakes her head, falling into step with him.

The band starts a new song, slower, and Clarke looks around them. 

Aunt Dee and Sinclair are a couple feet away, Raven and her pilot too, swaying to the gentle tune. Clarke lifts one of her hands to Bellamy’s shoulder, as one of his falls to the small of her back, their other hands joined to the side. 

Some schemer pulls one of the strings of lights and whistles arise as the room darkens slightly. Clarke isn’t sure where to look, so she leans forward, her forehead resting on the soft part of Bellamy’s chest, just under his collarbone.

They sway.

It’s a Garth Brooks song. 

Not a waltz, nothing elegant or ballroom, just simple strings, simple folk. 

The band starts singing, and Clarke feels Bellamy’s chest vibrating before she registers that he’s humming along. 

She leans back to look up at him, but he doesn’t look at her. His eyes are up, on the lights of the rafters, and Clarke thinks that’s probably intentional.

She doesn’t mind the view.

He dances like he does most things, deliberately, with purpose, steadily. If they were to stay on this floor for a week, he’d keep the same easy motion, humming the same tune. It’s certain and it’s stable, and Clarke feels it might be a little more. 

When the band gets to the chorus, Bellamy starts singing, echoing the words in his deep whisper, and Clarke leans back into him, feels his chin settle on top of her head.

“Our lives are better left to chance; I could have missed the pain, but I'd have to miss the dance.”

Clarke’s eyes are burning suddenly, and she knows her hand tightens in Bellamy’s when he squeezes hers back.

If that isn’t how things go.

She thinks of a million moments—sitting in a gondola in Venice with Wells on their honeymoon, holding Madi in the hospital as the doctors figure how much morphine they can put into a young girl’s body. Ethan stumbling through his first word, the funeral they held over a toilet bowl when their goldfish died. Taking Christmas card pictures while Ethan was teething, ice cream runs on the kids’ first day of school, the pearl necklace Wells bought her for their first year anniversary. Moving into that house, choosing a lone burial plot in Olivewood, dancing around the kitchen when Wells was promoted. 

Moving to the farm, Clarke thinks. 

Ethan picking blackberries, Raven learning the goats’ names, Madi carefully straining the chevre through the cheesecloth. Gallons of tea and espresso with Aunt Dee, sunrises in the barn with Bellamy, the way the sun filters through the leaves in the driveway. 

“Holding you I held everything,” Bellamy sings. “For a moment wasn't I the king...but if I’d only known how the king would fall.”

His voice is thicker and Clarke wonders what memories are rushing through his mind. 

Erin walking down the aisle, maybe, the way his heart sank when he was served their divorce papers. Eating their wedding cake on their one-year anniversary, packing up photos when she moved out. The plans he’d shelved and then laid to rest, the dreams he’d known and lived, the ones that grew stale. 

“Hey, who's to say you know, I might have changed it all. And now I'm glad I didn't know the way it all would end, the way it all would go. Our lives are better left to chance. I could have missed the pain, but I'd of had to miss the dance.”

Clarke’s heart breaks for him, the man in her arms.

Their losses are different, incomparable, but they’re both losses. 

Her hand slips from his shoulder to his back, just under his neck, and she brushes her nails slightly over his back. There’s nerves at the back of your neck, they release the same...she’s not sure what.

But everyone she’s held, from her children to lovers to friends, have been soothed that way. 

Bellamy’s shoulders hunch slightly.

They’re barely moving, the two of them, smallest steps in a confined circle, swirling in the depth of grief and celebration, loss and life. 

Clarke feels eyes on her, looks up to see Aunt Dee watching the two of them, a watery smile on her face. She tucks her chin over Sinclair’s shoulder and they turn away, slow.

The guitar stops.

Polite applause, and the couples break apart across the floor. Clarke and Bellamy step apart, and she feels him squeeze her hand again, soft, before he lets go. When she looks over at him, he’s already gone, walking a straight path out of the barn, into the dark night. 

— 

  
October feels like it was pulled from a textbook; it’s novel, especially for Texas. The oaks across the property turn auburn, dropping leaves in flurries for Ethan to scrape into a pile and throw into the crisp autumn air.

The farmer’s market closes for the year.

They go to a pumpkin patch, pick the orangest ones they can find, and gut them in the farm sink, making pies and salting the seeds. They put candles in the hulls of the pumpkins, lining the driveway.

The airstream is empty. 

Bellamy left quietly after Aunt Dee’s birthday, no fanfare. Clarke knows she doesn’t really have a claim to ask him to stay, doesn’t know why she misses him as much as she does.

She’s sure everyone else does too.

Abby comes by again, the Lincoln creeping up the driveway, not close enough to the farmhouse to save her heels. 

She tells Clarke about a job at the gallery, something she arranged quietly, and hasn’t this always been her dream, darling, the least she can do is pretend to be grateful that her mother has gone out of

her way to provide…

Clarke lets her talk herself out, then declines.

She’s not leaving. 

Clarke doesn’t know when she makes the decision, just that it’s suddenly made, and she knows it with absolute clarity. They’ll stay at the farmhouse through the winter, a full year on the farm. Come spring, she’ll ask Aunt Dee about the house on the hill.

It’ll make a home for Madi and Ethan. 

They’ll fill the empty halls with new memories, cleats and dirty boots and laughter.

It will be messy and it will be imperfect, but it’ll be a home. 

She still has the dream.

She probably always will, memory mixing with her subconscious, replaying the last wisp of her past life. She no longer dreads the dream, treasures Wells’ face, releases him when he leaves.

She stops following him out to the driveway, lets him reassure her and go. 

When she wakes, she calms her breathing, then pulls on her boots and her coat, heading out of the farmhouse. Sometimes she’ll take a travel mug of the chamomile lavender tea, sometimes she’ll just bury her nose in her scarf. She’ll trek through the grass and the leaves, crunching under her feet, up to the house on the hill.

Sits on the stairs, looks at the stars, sends light his way.

Names constellations for Madi and Ethan, thinks of stories to tell them in the stars. 

In November, she hears a branch snap when she’s sitting on the porch, gazing heavenwards at the stars, blinking back at her.

She recognizes the footstep. 

Bellamy doesn’t say anything at first, just sits beside her. 

“El Paso?” she asks.

She sees him nod out of the corner of her eyes, and when she looks over, she’s surprised by what she sees.

His beard is gone.

Without thinking, she reaches out, a gentle hand down the side of his face. “When did this happen?”

“A couple of days ago,” he says, clearing his throat when his voice sounds a little rusty. “When I got back.”

Clarke drops her hand. “And how long are you back for?”

Bellamy tips his head back, to the stars. “Depends.”

“On?” Clarke says, still watching him.

He doesn’t say anything, but she thinks she knows.

Clarke thinks of farmer’s markets and goats that need singing to, a locked refrigerator and the view from the hill down by the farmhouse. She thinks of classical music in an old truck, pitched hay in a pile, Madi’s right hook, fairy lights in the barn. The pain she could’ve missed, but didn’t, because she chose the dance; Bellamy’s pain and Bellamy’s dance, and the crickets and the night wind that sound like a new refrain, one that’s already familiar. Bellamy must hear it too, because he looks down at her, finally, and his eyes crinkle. 

She kisses him, the farmer with deep eyes and deep scars, the man who hates bullies and might just love a girl from the city. 

A new dance.

His arms settle around her waist and Clarke thinks what a soft wonder it is, to be held, to be safe like this. 

A wind rustles through the trees, cold and clear, whips around them and Clarke shivers. Bellamy smiles, his face a breath from hers, pulls her into his side and she goes easily. Her head settles on his chest, above his heart, and the rhythm of it is smooth and steady, a beacon. His fingers stroke her upper arm, and Clarke’s heart sighs, content. 

From this house, these timbers and beams, she will make a home for her children. And in this man, his arms around her and his cheek against her hair, she will find hers. 


End file.
